Chapter 1

It was a nice evening, with a little breeze breaking the heat of the drought that gripped the countryside. The young man rode slowly down the street of a town that the sign labeled Eldorada, Illinois. To all appearances he was a handsome young man of no great wealth, but not a pauper either. He had two horses that were obviously well cared for. The second carried a few bundles, neatly stowed, well balanced on the beast. If anyone had paid serious attention to him, they would have noticed that he watched everything, but seemed confident with himself and at ease in these surroundings.

He stopped and dismounted in front of a building with a sign that simply said HOTEL. As he entered, he approached the clerk, who seemed initially ready to dismiss the lad as one who would not provide much in the way of profit for the establishment. "Help you?"

The prospective lodger noticed that he didn’t ask pleasantly, and he didn’t say "sir." "How much is your best room?"

The man eyed him again. "I’m sorry. Our best room has been taken for the last week by a visiting banker." His tone said the young man clearly didn’t belong in such esteemed company. "Perhaps I can offer you one of our lesser accommodations."

"How much is the best room you’ve got available?" The young man’s tone changed a little. It was no longer low or particularly pleasant; now it was slightly more demanding.

At the young man’s persistence, the clerk offered what he was sure would be a rejected price, a price only slightly less than he had charged the banker for an elegant room with superb amenities. "I do have a rather excellent room….a real feather bed, down pillows, pleasant view…..for two dollars fifty-cents a night."

"That include bath and daily linen change?"

"Linens are changed daily upon request….twenty-five cents extra. A bath can be provided as well…but that would be an extra fifty-cents."

"Can I get a shirt mended, and maybe get some things done up by tomorrow afternoon?"

"Such services are available to guests…at a nominal charge, of course."

"Then I’ll take it." His attitude changed instantly to that of a man accustomed to receiving excellent service. There was authority in every word. "I’ll need the room for two nights. I want the linens changed now and tomorrow, too. I’ll want a bath tonight, and I may require another later on, and I don’t expect to wait…and make sure there’s lots of towels and soap. I need the shirt mended and laundry done by tomorrow too. How much does it all come to."

"That will be…let’s see….that will be eight dollars, in advance." He still didn’t say "sir," but he was no longer insolent.

The lodger paid the man, pulling coins from his pocket. The clerk eyed the ample amount of money remaining and became much more interested in providing superb attention to his every need.

"Yes, sir! Is there anything else I can do for you?" He handed him the room key, hoping to find there was some other money he could extract from the new arrival, who had already provided him with a nice day’s profit as it was. He might even get a small bonus from the manager for this.

"Can you tell me where I can board my horses, get a good meal, maybe play a friendly game of cards."

"Well, the livery is just down the street to the left. The hotel dining room is small, but the menu is adequate. We serve fresh vegetables along with excellent steaks. I believe you’ll enjoy the atmosphere at the Raven’s Gulch, out the door to the right, two doors down. Should offer any entertainment you might prefer." He gave the young man a knowing wink.

"Thanks…get the bath set up right away. I’ll tend my horses, be back in a short while."

"Certainly, sir. It will be ready upon your return."

The livery was acceptable. He settled the horses well but efficiently, selected a bundle containing his needs, and returned to the hotel. He was pleased to find the bath waiting in his more than satisfactory room. He took time to clean his boots and dust his hat and coat. He quickly stripped the other dusty clothes from his body, piling them in a neat stack by the door. He selected a big bar of soap from a tray by the tub, testing to make certain it had a good, clean fragrance…nothing too sweet or flowery. When he put his foot into the steaming water, he smiled. This was going to be a treat he had promised himself ever since he left the lumber camp about a week before. He eased fully into the tub and for the next hour or so he soaked and scrubbed, whistling brightly, until he was clean and ready for an evening out.

While the clothing he had worn as he arrived was serviceable, he now selected his best. Dressed in black, his normal good looks were accentuated to perfection. He added one accessory he had not worn when he came into the establishment -- a walnut grip .44 in a black, silver-studded holster. It fit his hips perfectly, and he was obviously accustomed to its weight and feel, and he needed no mirror to know everything was right. When he was dressed this way, especially with that final added touch, he knew he would be more than respected wherever he went. The way he moved, the look he allowed to show on his face, would make the difference. He could have friends for the night with a smile, or if he chose to be silent or to frown, he would be left absolutely alone.

As he left his room, he felt ready to enjoy whatever came from the evening. He deposited the damaged shirt, the one with the long tear in the sleeve, plus the clothing he had worn and another dirt encrusted pair of pants, at the desk, reminding the clerk to have the shirt neatly repaired and have all of them ready by the next afternoon. The man was a born observer. When he spotted the .44, he accepted the bundle with a quick, "Yes, sir." His lodger simply smiled.

The steak was a small one, but the best cut the cook could offer. It was done as he requested, and when he cut into it, he found it tender and succulent. He enjoyed the vegetables immensely. He hadn’t had carrots in quite a long time and even though potatoes were often a part of his diet, these were small and fancy, roasted with tiny onions and the skins in tact. They were dusted with something the waiter called parsley. There was even a small salad in a bowl beside his plate with small flecks of colorful tidbits that indicated the establishment did try to provide a special touch to the meals. The drink he selected was water…he wasn’t ready for anything stronger yet. He wanted nothing to distract from the taste of the first good meal he had eaten in some time. The water was served in a fancy goblet, and small slivers of ice kept the liquid cool. After the heat he’d been riding through, the cooled drink was more than welcome. The last time he had eaten in such luxurious surroundings….he smiled to himself. He didn’t think he had eaten such a meal since he’d left Martha Collin’s table, and certainly not during his time at the camp.

He walked the town’s streets for a short time. He was accustomed to checking out a place before he settled in. It was a town like many others…no problems. He finally entered the Raven Gulch, pushing the hat back off his head, letting it fall down his back. He stood just inside the doors until he had surveyed the place and checked for faces he might know. Convinced that he was unrecognized, and would be unchallenged, he walked over to the well-equipped bar. "Whiskey, please…your best. Make it a double."

"Yes, sir." The bartender placed a shining glass in front of him. The patron placed several equally shiny silver dollars on the bar within easy reach, and there seemed to be a good possibility of more where they came from. "If there's anything else I can get you, just let me know."

"Leave the bottle." The man paid the cost and began to slowly sip the first drink he’d had since he left camp. It was good whiskey, not watered for a change, and well worth what he had paid. He drank slowly, glad to be in no hurry. He glanced down the bar, watching the men who came and went, leaning along it’s shiny surface. After a time, among them, down to the right, there appeared a woman….a very handsome woman. One of several women in the place, she had approached a newcomer whose outfit had seen much cleaner days. They spoke quietly and seriously. The man handed her something, then turned and left the bar. The younger man watched her as long as he thought he could without being totally rude, appreciating her trim waste and full bosom. Her dress of choice was blue…or was it deep green…maybe both at the same time, a dress to suit her, rich and deep in color, not flashy or gaudy. It was a nice color that highlighted her golden blonde hair. He figured she was a bit older than he was, but not too much, and that didn’t matter anyhow…she was very nice to look at.

He pulled his eyes away from her, watching the card games in progress in the room. When a chair became empty nearby, at what he perceived was a low-key, friendly game, he picked up his bottle and glass, and approached the group. "Mind if I join in?"

"Take a seat…five card stud, deuces are wild. Open for two-bits."

"Fine." He settled into a chair, offering a spot of whiskey to each of those at the table to make sure the game got started again on a friendly footing. The group was made up of others like himself…those with enough money to spend a nice evening at cards, but not with enough money to raise too high or provoke a fight. There didn’t appear to be a mean temper at the table. Everyone was passing a pleasant evening, just hearing the cards shuffle, watching the money move around the table.

He had played for about an hour, neither winning big nor losing too much, when the blonde placed her long fingers on his shoulder. He ignored her at first….he was winning just then. She felt the taunt muscles in his arms and back through the shirt he wore and began to tentatively move her red-tipped fingernails over the cloth, applying enough pressure to attract his attention, not enough to distract the other players. He glanced up at her, grinning up through a lock of reddish-blond hair that had fallen in his face. He said nothing, just turned back to the game. Her hand moved up from his shoulders, and she began to play with the soft, thick hair under the hat and along his collar. Her fingers drew circles along his neck, moving little by little to the side until she traced her finger along the edge of his ear. "Can I maybe help you, lady?" He asked her, looking up into her eyes with another little grin on his face, knowing exactly what she was up to…wondering if he should play a different game with this one.

She leaned down, allowing her breasts to brush his shoulders, reaching down below the table to run her fingers knowingly along the inside of his hard, muscular thigh. She whispered in his ear. "How about a nice warm bed tonight, cowboy?"

"I suggest you don’t call me cowboy…" His expression darkened for a brief moment and his voice sounded cold. That bothered her, but his smile returned readily enough. He finished the last of the excellent whiskey. He was feeling very relaxed, and she certainly had his attention. He ignored the hand of cards being played around the table. The dealer skipped him easily enough, quietly interested in how the new game at this table would play out tonight.

"What’s wrong with me calling you cowboy, honey…you look tough enough….what should I call you?"

"Call me Topper….that’ll do."

"How about it, Topper…you want to play with something besides cards for a while?"

"Give me a moment….I want to finish this. I’ll meet you at the bar in a minute or two."

"Fine. I’ll be waiting."

He finished several hands…he didn’t win. "Well, boys, I think I’ve got a better chance playing to win with that one tonight."

"Be careful with that one…Liz’s got a real mean bite." It was the dealer, the professional who controlled the game, and while the words were spoken with a smile, the young man thought he sensed something more behind the remark. Probably just jealous, or maybe he was her steady man. It didn’t matter. She was obviously for hire.

"Could be interesting," he smiled a devilish grin the other men instantly appreciated. "Thanks for the game, and wish me luck. Barkeep, make sure these boys have another couple of rounds on me." As he rose, he tossed two more pieces of silver at the man, which made the players laugh as they bid him a good night. After he had walked away, they all realized they didn’t even know his real name.

He crossed to the bar. He smiled at her, friendly enough, slightly cocky, "Let’s go, little darling."

"I’ve got a room upstairs….you want a bottle to take…."

"Sure." He paid the bartender for another like he had ordered before. "But I’ve got a room at the hotel. That clerk gonna fuss if you come home with me?"

"Henderson?….That little weasel? Maybe….which room you in?"

"Got 220 for the next two nights."

"220? Not bad. No, Henderson’s not going to say one word about anything you want to do…long as you don’t shoot up the furniture with that pistol."

"I don’t plan to waste tonight on pumping lead into furniture." The grin promised an interesting evening.

"So much the better, honey."

He took her arm, escorting her up the street and up to his room. When they went inside, the tub still stood at the side of the room, empty, and everything else had been cleaned. He removed his hat, then his holster, and crossed to place them on a small table near the window. Henderson had been right. It was a very nice room, but the view out the window wasn’t the one he was interested in just now. He was a little nervous….she wasn’t Bridie, the pretty, young camp girl he had grown accustomed to. "What’s your name?"

"Elizabeth….Liz…."

"Not Lizzie is it?"

"No…but if it matters, you can call me that."

"No…I won’t be calling you that…"

"Well, Topper, what do you want to do? What’s your pleasure for tonight?"

"I don’t know…."

"You don’t know?!" Certainly a man who looked like this one wasn’t totally inexperienced. She hoped she hadn’t made that mistake. A virgin could be such a bother.

"I know…but I don’t know." His smile was a wicked little grin. He crossed to her. "Let’s just work that out as we go. "

He knew more than enough. His hands went around her waist as he pulled her to him. Rather than being rough and brutish as she expected him to be, he kissed her with tenderness, starting at her mouth and gently traveling down her throat. He used his dexterous hands to unbutton her dress, button-by-button, finally lowering the bodice to expose her breasts. He explored them, again unhurriedly. He cupped them, feeling their texture and fullness, bringing them to his lips, using his tongue to caress their peaks.

He was at ease at his business, patient, enjoying immensely what he was about. She was amazed at her own response, that he could interest her with his exploration. She felt she had lost the ability to appreciate her own true passion long ago. Her business was to provide pleasure, not to receive it, but she had to admit she did feel a small stirring inside. He moved leisurely but with purpose. He unpinned her hair and let it fall around her face, kissing her everywhere, tracing kisses down to her waist, then pushing the dress and petticoats to the floor. He continued with her light corset, and as he discovered and released the flesh underneath, he followed her skin down with his lips and his hands, touching her, stroking her, tasting her.

He removed his own shirt, without embarrassment or shame, as he continued to explore her body. Returning to his other pursuits, he encouraged her to touch him as well, to discover his body for herself. Suddenly, he reached under her, lifting her tightly against him, then picked her up and carried her to the bed. He didn’t throw her down. He eased her down, exploring every inch of her completely. Then he took her in slow, dizzying moves until she knew she could feel everything in his touch. He showed her what he wanted, and she responded in appreciation of his ability to arouse her. She gave back, touching him, stroking him with her long experienced fingers, arousing him repeatedly in return, making his need her own for his time of hunger and craving. She was pleased with her ability… feeling he had gotten his full money’s worth and more. She worked hard to please him, matching him move for move, and was repaid when at least once, in lustful abandon, she cried out her own genuine passion.

In early morning, just at daylight, when he was finally satisfied, he rolled from her, reaching for his clothes. She felt a slight touch of disappointment at the loss of his touch.

"How much?"

She was wounded…even though she knew she shouldn’t be. She couldn’t afford illusions, especially not now. "Are we done, honey?"

"No. How much to stay with me through another night?"

"All the time, Topper?"

"Yes."

"I’ll have to think a minute."

"You on a deadline, Liz?"

"No…. say six dollars. But I’ll have to go tell Slick where I’m gonna be."

"Fine. I’ll send Henderson to bring us some food and order a tub of hot water for later so we can bathe."

"You’re big on bathing, aren’t you, Topper."

"If you’re going to see Slick, hurry up, and bring us back a couple of bottles of whiskey and bring along some smokes." He handed her money. "I’m planning some big celebrating for the next twenty-four hours. You plan on partying right along with me."

While she was gone to see her boss, he saw to it that the bed linens were changed and the room straightened. When she returned, the food was ready, and so was he. They spent the entire day celebrating. He smoked his cigars between unions. They broke only to allow a skittish maid access to return his mended shirt and laundry. He brought the young girl to bright-cheeked embarrassment when he answered the door, wicked grin teasing her mercilessly, in only a too-revealing towel.

He and Liz celebrated together in the tub, devouring the food, with a great deal of whiskey, and countless times in bed. He seemed insatiable. Late in the evening, more than sated herself, she tried to draw him into conversation.

"Just exactly what are you celebrating, Topper. Haven’t you had enough partying, yet?" She could see that he was finally and totally drunk. Still, he was a charming drunk, but she still didn’t know his real name.

"Little darling, I’m celebrating my soon to be birthday. I haven’t finished nothing yet….come here."

"Birthday! How old?"

"I’ll never tell, little darling. That’s my business. I don’t talk my business with nobody. Been a real memorable celebration, though, with my thanks to you….have we finished that bottle yet?"

She passed it to him, sassily spilling a small quantity on his head as he soaked in yet another tub. "Yes, that’s the third…no fourth bottle since we’ve been here. You’ve had enough."

"No….not yet…" He reached out and pulled her toward him.

"Are you sure? It might cramp your style." She reached down into the warm soapy water and patted him familiarly on his hard flat stomach, moving her hand lower until a firm squeeze on his member made his breath quicken again. She had to laugh. She had hoped maybe something would cramp his style for just a little while, but her touch hadn't been the way to do that.

"Nah……but that last bottle's tasted just a might oily, darling. Think Slick might have slipped a ringer in on me."

"You could still taste the difference?! You’re gonna be near blind tomorrow… if you’re not dead by then."

"Well, tomorrow, I’ll just ride with my head hanging slightly to the right. Won’t be the first time. Look, go get us another one. Tell Slick, after all my good business, he owes me this one and to make damn sure it’s a good one. And while I’m at it, before I spend it all on whiskey, let’s get your six dollars out and put em in your little purse." He stepped boldly from the tub, went to his pants and extracted the coins. Without a word, he put them in her hand.

"That’s just a little cold, Topper."

"No, no, darling, don’t mean it to be. You’ve sure given me some fine entertainment. You’re a beautiful woman, and real talented one, too." He smiled a smile that should have taken her breath away, but she was first and always a woman of business. "Best six dollars I ever spent. Be a birthday I won’t forget no time soon. You get on and hurry back though. We’ve got some more celebrating left to do."

She gave him one more pat on his bare backside and, shaking her head at his eagerness, slipped on her dress and left him to run the errand. He wandered around the room for a few minutes, straightening small things, and then, feeling rather lethargic and admitting to himself that he really did have a snoot full of fine whiskey, he lay down on the bed.

Until they woke him up, he didn’t feel a thing.

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Chapter 2

The Illinois summer had been murder because the rain refused to fall, and it hadn’t fallen for more than a month. The wheat had long since become parched and the season was early yet. The man had ridden conservatively to save his horse and himself, but his schedule was tight, and he was forced to ride through the mid-day heat to reach his home destination of Norrisville by that night. The trial in which he was scheduled to give testimony had been set to begin the next morning.

Near a well-known, but now nearly-dry watering hole, he came upon a wagon…a huge, black, steel wagon. It was a prison wagon by the look of it, but whoever built it had had no compassion for any human that might spend time inside it in the uncompromising sun. The windows were mere slits near the roof of the vehicle, allowing little light and practically no air. That it was a prison wagon he did not doubt,. It was more than curious that it was here unattended, unhorsed, and sitting in the open, hot, breezeless air when there were at least a few useful trees nearby to give a modicum of relief from the sun. Time was short, but the man was a lover of curiosities, so he stopped to check the situation. He and the horse both needed water and a chance to stretch anyway.

The wagon’s one useable window, a barred opening in the rear door, provided a partial look inside. When he stood on his toes to have a better look, he noticed three keys on a metal circle and a canteen lying on the floor of the wagon. They were lying precisely where the rays of the afternoon sun made them highly visible. There was also a key in the door, but that was locked. Whether or not the items on the floor were a coincidence, the man decided to ponder later.

Thinking the wagon must be disabled, thinking that no human must be left inside, but curious still, he turned the key, opened the door, and climbed the steep, short steps. The smell almost made him gag. He recognized human waste and sweat, then the stink of blood, and an odor he thought must be vomit and lots of it. He saw no prisoner from where he stood, and not wanting to identify any more stenches from the box, he turned to leave.

The things on the floor stopped his departure. He talked out the riddles the items provided for his considertion. "Now why leave bright, shiny keys inside a locked box where there’s no prisoner? Why a locked door at all when there’s no one to escape? Why a canteen left behind when whoever put it here’s gonna have to cross some mighty hot territory to go anywhere? There's water outside to fill it. And why leave all these things on the floor?" As he reached to pick them up, the shaft of light illuminated something metallic on the floor in the rear of the van. He glanced around and stopped in consternation.

"Now, what the hell is this?" The metallic object was a set of manacles. That wasn’t unusual for a prison wagon. But his eyes, adjusting to the dark, made out two feet encased in the metal bands. The cuffs and the feet were illuminated by the scant light, surrounded by splatters of blood, and covered in the regurgitated contents from the man’s stomach. The man, as he made him out, was sitting on the hard wooden bench in the spectral recesses. He was hunched forward, arms between his knees, head drooping forward and down, but down at a strange angle, with his head pulled sharply back. There was no sound.

He stepped to the back and squatted in front of the figure. It was then his own retch threatened to join that on the floor of the vehicle. What he saw explained the silence.

The one prisoner had been beaten mercilessly and left to die. He was sitting on the bench, hands fastened in chains, which in turn was shackled to the large ring in the floor. He was sitting in the position he held because the chain had been shortened to make certain he could not sit upright. He could not fall forward because the heavy, metal collar around his neck was also bolted by a chain into the wall of the van behind him. The collar had been left tight enough, the chain short enough, to put unbearable strain on the man’s neck and shoulders, to make breathing a burden. He was without clothing, and, even in the dim light, it was obvious that few inches of his body had been left untouched. His face was battered, his eyes swollen. His body bore ragged cuts, bruises, welts, and burns. The blood was mostly matted and dry, but in places it still oozed from the more brutal wounds. No wonder he had died . "Man, that’s one hell of a way to go. You must have been one mean son-of-a-bitch for somebody to do this to you, or else you met up with the meanest son-of-a-bitch on God’s green earth."

But he wasn’t dead; close, but not yet. As the man touched the captive’s chin and raised it no more than an inch, the bound one’s eyes, with no recognition in them, opened one brief time. The scream that erupted from him sent the newcomer back on his heals. It wasn’t that it was loud, or forceful, because the scream came as only a guttural moan; it was the fact that the man was capable of creating any sound at all. "No….." Having been touched by hands that were so much cooler than his own parched, feverish, pain racked body, the prisoner began to convulse, then again to retch. The small quantity of newly disgorged matter contained nothing except blood. His skin was dry to the touch. He burned with fever.

"Good Lord, Almighty." The new arrival started quickly toward the door…not intending to leave…merely to pick up the keys.

"….please." After the one additional word, more a plea, that obviously cost him a great deal, the prisoner was silent again.

When the free man picked them up, he realized the keys had been another form of torment. "They just leave you here like this?" For as long as the wretch had sat in pain and endured the privations of this place, the keys that would give him freedom had glistened…out of reach…out of hope. The canteen was empty. Had he succeeded in freeing himself from the shackles at the back, the captive would have found the outer door locked and the promise of a sip of water to be an empty dream.

As the traveler unlocked the cuffs from the other man’s neck, ankles, and wrists, he marveled that the extremities were still attached. At some point, the prisoner had fought to free himself, creating trenches of damaged flesh below. "Maybe this was why they chained you up so tight. You fight em to the end?"

With the prisoner unshackled, the newcomer reached under his arms to drag him face downward from the bench. Another scream, this one as silent as the first, escaped him. The samaritan stopped, considering what he would be able to do for this one, once he got him out. With a plan forming, he laid him on the cleaner area of the floor and went to make preparation for a kinder move.

He started by first moving his horse to the water to let him drink, then to the area beneath the trees, where he rolled out one of his blankets and made a pallet. He returned to the wagon, and as gently, but determinedly, as possible, he pulled the man out into the sun. His burden was a long, tall one, but he seemed made of paper. "Didn’t waste no food on you either, I guess. Well, come on, then….I know this is gonna be hell, but let’s get you out of here."

He dragged his limp load first to the water. He removed his holster and outer clothing. The only large pool still deep enough to hold more than mud, and both of them as well, provided relief for exhausted flesh. The relief was no real comfort, however, to the one who reacted to the touch of the water on his skin as if he were being tortured anew. The water offered salvation, but not an escape from what must have been this one’s own dark, very personal hell.

The dead weight of the unconscious man was no problem as the other dragged him to the blanket pallet. There was no more sound as he moved him.

"Well, that’s a real blessing for you. Hope you stay out a good long while."

He stepped to the water, filled a cup and drank himself, filled it again, and returned to put water in the man’s mouth…drop by drop. From his saddlebag he fetched a pinch of salt, added it to the cup of water, and began again to drip the fluid into him. When he had given as much as he guessed he should, he pulled a rag from his neck, dipped it into more of the water, and touched it to a small, skinless, blood red strip on the man’s back.

"please…..no…." The words were pitiful mutters drifting up from deep inside a tormented soul.

"So, they made you beg. Yeah, I bet they did. Everybody can do it….most do it lots earlier than this." He stopped to claim his own clothes.

"….please."

"Easy, now. Not going to hurt you." He returned to sponge the remaining filth from the man’s frame, dabbing as gently as he could at the injuries. "My name’s John Hill. Know that don’t mean squat now, but still, you ought to know. Be pleased to know yours when you’re able to give it."

"….no."

From where the formerly imprisoned man lay, Hill’s inspection told of a beating and torture he could not imagine any human surviving. When he turned him, he stopped in shock again, "Damn, I thought you were a full-grown man. You’re not much more than a kid!" The remaining check showed more of the same. This wasn’t the first time this one had known injury. His body held old scars in several places. There would be far more of the new ones, and for good measure, whoever had hated this kid enough to hurt him that much had also shot him, with a seemingly deliberate aim that had left him dying by slow degrees. The loss of blood would have intensified his thirst as it drained his life. Another few hours, another day at best, the plan would have worked for sure.

A litter was the only way to move him. John spent most of another hour finding enough materials to make one sturdy enough for the trip. The battered one had roused little, only during the times when moisture passed his lips, again when a wad of cloth torn from the bandana was pressed hard against the bullet wound in his side. Because it was necessary, the man had firmly covered the boy’s body with a blanket he had soaked in the pool and secured him to the litter with several lengths of rope. The pressure of new bindings caused the youth to moan pitifully again, but it had to be done.

Before he headed for civilization and more care than he could provide himself, Hill drizzled more water down the boy's throat. He protected the battered face with the hat that had been on his own head. Traveling slowly, stopping frequently to drizzle water into the one on the litter, the healthy man headed resolutely toward Norrisville.

They stopped whenever the boy couldn’t take any more. One particularly sharp jump over a partially covered stump brought him too. His throat now contained enough moisture to allow him to produce a weak, but effective, cry.

"PLEASE!!!!" The open eyes still held no understanding.

"Easy….here."

"Stop…..Please, no more……" More water slid into his body. His caretaker bathed his feverish face.

"Give you a few minutes. But we got to move. I’ve got trial tomorrow, and you don’t have tomorrow unless I get you somewhere better than this. It’s not too much further now."

"Tried….tried….."

"Yeah, you did, and you made it out alive. Easy, now."

"Tried…."

"Tried what? What did you try?"

"die….Let…me…d…."

He led the horse on…"Hell, no!!. Not now! After you pulled this off, you sure ain’t meant to die now. You’re either the luckiest or the most stubborn boy I’ve had the fortune to meet, and I can’t wait until you’re up to telling me your story." He stopped and reached into his saddlebag…"Here….take some of this….be easier traveling with a little of my whiskey to easy the pain." He administered a liberal portion, but he knew there wasn’t enough to keep the boy under, even for the time the short trip should take. At least the pain would be dulled some small bit for a time. "When it gets bad, you just let it out. Ain’t no one here to hear you ‘cept me, this horse, and that big old crow circling way up there."

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 Chapter 3

"Found him at that watering hole half way to Eldorada, near Texacanas. Locked in a dang prison wagon, plum naked. Swear I thought that boy was as dead as a beaver hat."

"What time you get in last night, anyway? If you’d have missed that trial this morning, and I’d have had to let that horse-thieving, murderer go, I think I’d have hung you in his place. We’ve hunted that bastard for how many years?"

The man grinned a bit and chuckled low, "Had to catch me first. You heard of any prison wagon gone missing lately? Any prisoner missing?"

"Yeah…come to think of it…..think the state prison lost one. No prisoner, though. About a week ago, end of the journey, heard the drivers stopped for a few rounds, wound up trussed up in an alley with their wagon gone."

"Well, you can send them a wire and tell em where it’s at. Horses are long gone. They ought to send those drunks to go get it…they’ll have a lot of cleaning to do before they can put it back in use. Glad that trial was a short piece of business. I could sure use some sleep. Didn’t make it in until this morning….damn close to the deadline. Kept having to stop. He couldn’t take being moved very far at a time. Ran out of whiskey before the sun went down. Damn long night for both of us."

"Where’d you put the prisoner?"

"Don’t know that he was a prisoner…least not a sentenced prisoner. May have even been law. Got him a bed."

"He gonna live?"

"Holly’s watching him. She’s good, but she sent for the doc this time anyway. He’s got a chance with the two of them. That boy must not even be twenty yet. How’d he have the guts to take all that."

"You’re not much more than twenty. You’ve taken a few good working-overs yourself."

"Ain’t nothing like this. No telling how long he took it, what all they did to him, but whoever had him shouldn’t be allowed to walk the earth. He left him there, knowing the situation he was in, with keys and a canteen in plain sight. Not only beat him, and shot him, but tortured him as much as they could. Must have worked him real slow, wanted him to last, to suffer." He shook his head. "Well, for me, I am mighty grateful to just be able to sit here and enjoy a nice cool beer and a bit of conversation. Was only in that box for a little bit, no telling how long he was there."

"You gonna go see about him?"

"Yeah, heading back over there now. You want to come?"

"No, I’ll wait til he comes to, if he comes to. Then I’ll want to talk to him."

"Well, I’d best get at it." He leaned forward in his chair.

"Remember, John. You don’t know anything about him. Don’t go making an innocent out of him til you know something more."

"Thought it was innocent til proven guilty. Okay, Judge….I’ll let Holly take care of him for now. But you know how I am about curious. And this one sure is curious. I do love a good story." He stood, stretching his long frame as he rose.

"You got him a bed? At the hotel?"

"Naw…can’t afford the hotel…and he sure didn’t come with any where-with-all to afford it neither. He’s at Holly’s place."

"You put him at the brothel?"

"Why not. I don’t think he’ll care…won’t even know for days. His lack of apparel won’t offend any of those ladies’ sensibilities, now will it. And Holly, you know Holly, she’ll treat him, tease him, tan him, or take him…whatever he needs at the moment, or else she'll set one of the other girls on him."

"That’s the truth…she will….especially if it’s you that asks her to."

"Well, best go check him out."

He crossed the street, walking to the edge of the small town. He entered the sun lit parlor of Holly’s Social Club, and without need for invitation or announcement climbed the carpeted stairway to her apartments that occupied the third floor. Where normally he would have entered her personal suite on the right, he turned left and entered the last door on the hallway. The room was dimly lit by filtered sunlight, the windows open to catch any breeze, and silence greeted his arrival.

"How is he?"

"Not dead. That’s about the best we can say." She stretched her slender, nicely curved body up and pushed the strand of shiny golden hair back from her face with a hand that was covered with a mixture of blood and water.

"Bullet finally came out. If it hadn’t got caught in a rib, would have passed clean through to begin with." The other man in the room was Bascomb Riter, the local doctor. He was a no-nonsense man who worked quickly but roughly on any wounds under his care. John had been his patient, or victim, more than once.

"Thought that was an exit wound in his back."

"Wasn't from the bullet. Somebody stabbed him with something that must have been on fire or at least red hot. From the damage, must have hurt like hell. He sure ain't moving any, no matter what I do to him."

"You saved his life, you know." She looked at John with a mixture of admiration and her normal blatant appreciation of his looks.

"We'll see if it's saved. Didn’t do nothing that wasn’t needed. Anybody would have done what I did."

"Not the last one he met up with." She looked down at the man on the bed, selected another of the numerous wounds, and began to clean away the grime and blood.

"Best thing you did was get him into water, get water down him, and I found salt on him. How’d you know about salt?" The doctor continued his work as they talked, lancing, stitching, pouring in whiskey as antiseptic, rubbing in salves.

"My ma always said to put salt in my water when I was working in strong sun. I don’t know why….she just said to do it. What Mama said, I did. Figured it didn’t hurt me, might help him. All the salt wasn't from me though. Found what I took to be salt just about everywhere on his body. They must have ground it into the wounds. Surprised if he’s right in the head when he wakes up, if he wakes up. He gonna make it?"

"Heat didn’t kill him. Lack of water and loss of blood didn’t kill him. Beating, dragging, shooting, stabbing, burning, skinning…..shoot, I don’t think anything can kill him short of a bullet through his head or his heart. Long as he don’t get blood poisoning from any of what I'm doing, he ought to come around. That don’t mean it’s gonna be easy or he’s gonna feel like much of anything for a long time. There’s a lot of hurt here." He followed Holly's work by rubbing salve into the obvious burn. The woman applied another bandage. "After he’s well, after he realizes he’s gonna live, I bet he’ll be mean as hell."

"Mean? Why?"

"Cause he’ll be mad at whoever did it. Mad at whoever puts him through what it’s gonna take to get him well. Mad at just about the whole damn world. Holly, let’s get that right hand next."

-------------------------------

Chapter 4

"I need you to help me turn him over again. John, you got to hold him if he wakes up. I’ve got to find out where this blood’s coming from. It’s coming out from his back again."

"I think you ought to just let him be….don't think he's ever gonna come to if we don't quit pokin’ on him. Don't figure his body can take much more, but his senses probably can't either."

Holly was quick to try to protect for him. "Doc, he’s been in pain the whole time and so sick since you got the bullet out…it’s been two full days of misery as it is….do we have to do this now?"

John tried once more, "He’s been through enough. Don’t you think it’ll just stop on it’s own?"

"Hard to tell. Been bleeding real slow since yesterday, and it doesn’t seem ready to stop yet. Best to check it while he’s still out. No telling what’s got him bleeding from in there again. Hope it’s just a little tear in all the stitches I put in. Most probably tore something lose doing all the tossing he's done, but it could be trouble."

"Let’s get it over with then."

The boy screamed, and he fought, bucking against the hands that held him down. "No….….." Then he was sick again, just before he passed out.

"Well, thank God for small mercies. We’ll just put in some packing to put a little pressure on that tear. Have to soak the cloth in whiskey and change it regular for a while. It’ll hurt him, but there’s no new damage. Just let him sleep as long as he will. I’m gonna go get some rest myself. Holly, you gonna watch?"

She nodded. "I’ll take him for a spell. John looks done in."

"Not as much as him, but enough."

"You just go make use of my bed. You seem to get along in it well enough."

The blue eyes from under the black hair winced in embarrassment, but he accepted the offer. Where he spent most of his nights wasn’t a secret from people in the town anyway. "Call me if I can help."

The boy slept for a time, but a much shorter time than anyone anticipated. "No…..," he startled awake, trying to fight, brought up short by pain and incredible weakness.

"Easy, honey. Lie still." She was changing the bandage on a particularly nasty

burn in the middle of his shoulder blades.

"No……No…....Please……."

"You’re safe…just be still…."

"Where?" His voice was raspy, his words thick and slow. His eyes were crystal clear circles of green, but the pupils were dilated, the eyes wide with fear. She shifted him to work on a different spot, feeling pity for him as his body trembled at her efforts. "Stop……just……please…….stop."

"Norrisville. You’re at my place. Here…drink, you’ve got to take lots of water, just as much as you can."

He sipped it. His mind recognized it, and he drank greedily, needing it, but hating the knife-like pain it caused in his throat. It tasted slightly bitter.

"How…get here?"

"Sheriff found you up around Eldorada. You’re busted up pretty bad. That’s enough now. You rest."

"Make….stop….please. Who are … ?"

She brushed matted strands of reddish blonde hair from his forehead, feeling that the fever had not lessened, "I’m Holly Whitner. Can you tell me who you are?"

It took strong will to finish the answer as he began to slide back into the waiting darkness… "Topper."

"No, your real name…Topper?"

"Not Topper…Lar…a…bee…Chris…Lara..bee."

----------------------------------------

Chapter 5

"John! Judge! Both of you shut up!!!" She hissed the words at the two arguing men, hovering over the younger one, trying to cool his fever. She and Riter needed for him to sleep, to get past the ‘help’ he had been given, to prepare for the next efforts at putting him back together. He roused for small minutes at a time, but he seemed unable to accept return of the pain, and quickly retreated into unconsciousness.

"He’s a killer."

"That ain’t been proved. He’s a kid. Can’t be much of a gunslinger, now can he?"

"You hear about a couple of murders up in Indiana a few years back…in Wheatland? Seems he was mixed up in that."

"How do you know."

"Checked the wanted posters…thought you would have done that."

"Would have sooner or later. I didn’t know what face to look for with his being so beat in. Didn’t know what name either. He’s only been coming to for a minute at a time, and only in and out since a couple of hours ago. You didn’t waste any time."

"Don’t pay to waste time. I’m gonna send a message to the court or the sheriff up there…see if they still want him."

"Shut up! Just let him rest. That’s no kind of talk for a sickroom. Now, hush!" She would have shooed them out, if they would have listened.

"Don’t get in so hot a bother about him. He ain’t going nowhere."

"You can’t be sure. I don’t want him loose in town if he’s got a bounty on his head. That poster’s for a thousand dollars. Nobody puts a bounty on a boy’s head that high if he ain’t something to be concerned over."

"He ain’t gonna be about town any time soon. If he’s wanted, when he gets awake, he’ll see this town, you, and me, and he’ll get out of here as fast as he can crawl."

"That’s what I’m afraid of."

"You’ve got a real lather up about this one. What’s that poster say he’s done?"

"Killed his own parents. Both of them. In cold blood."

"Damn. From the look of him, you’d never think…"

"You know better than to go by looks….how many years you been law here?"

"I didn’t kill them." The words came weakly from the bed across the room. The woman he had seen before lay her hand firmly on his chest to keep him from trying to move. Quietly spoken, the words came with more pain behind them than even what came from his badly beaten body. Even spoken as they were, the words seemed filled with honesty and conviction.

"Poster says…."

Driven by unrelenting pain and a sudden fear that he might be thrown back into the horror he had left behind years before, he spit a retort at the man, "Damned old poster. Thought I burned the last one of those lies at Patomka three years ago." Breathing hard from the small exertion that brought back all the agony, he gasped, "Please, make it stop! Can’t anybody make it stop? Whiskey?"

"You can prove this?" Hill provided a well-watered drink, aware of the suffering that lurked in every part of the boy. The patient again drank what he was offered, and he didn’t cry out even when he was moved. He simply set his teeth and bore the pain in silence this time.

"Not without my saddlebags….papers proving me innocent are in those bags. Send your damn wire. I don’t care. You can send it to Jarvis Putnam, Ethan Collins, or Sam Gates."

"Who are they?"

"Judge in Wheatland. Sheriff in Patomka. Sheriff in Owenville. Indiana. They know the truth of it. I didn’t kill them." He passed out again, but within the hour roused to find the same questioners waiting.

"You didn't kill them, you say."

"Yeah, I do say!!"

"Well, I've sent a telegram to Putnam. We'll know soon enough. You got any objections to a cuff on your wrist or ankle until we hear from them? Probably take several days to confirm everything. Don’t fancy setting you loose before then."

The boy looked from the Judge to the bandages on his wrists, remembering the pain of the futile attempts to rip his hands through manacles, the efforts to do it before they started beating him again. He remembered the added defeat that had come as they surrounded his neck with the metal collar and yanked his head back toward the wall. He looked at the man with the defeat showing in his eyes, "I’d rather not. I can’t stop you or fight what you decide to do, but you’ve got my word I won’t try to go nowhere until you get your answers." He closed his eyes then, waiting for the worst.

"Well, guess he’s through with you for now."

"Not surprised…seems like one who’d have gumption to try to challenge a judge …even if he’s hurt real bad. Well, it’s probably just exhaustion….let’s just give him time to rest."

The sleep was fitful, punctuated by his struggles with pain, plagued with dreams of what had happened to him. Memories of the long-ago year of running and fighting for his life now became mixed with the newer pain to create a deeper, more disturbing ordeal.

"No! NO! Stop!! PLEASE?" He was fighting again. He didn’t remember where he was, he just knew he didn’t want anyone holding him down ever again, wanted no more pain, wanted them to stop what was happening. He knew they had worked on various parts of him several times over the past hours. This time was hell. When he had awakened the last time, he had promised himself he would never beg again…but he quickly realized that he would beg because of this. Then he was truly awake and realized it was all still the same. He was fighting again, and he begged.

"Easy. Won’t take more than a few minutes. We’ll be done for today." Riter was pulling the clotted blood-soaked packing from the wound in his back causing new pain and burning. It was John who held him down.

"Please…" The word was torn again from clinched teeth.

"You’re still hurt pretty bad back here. Had to cut away the burned part to let it all mend. Needs a little extra help to heal."

"Please, don’t do this….." The pressure made him feel sick. At least it stopped quickly.

"That’s all of this side for now. John, I need to check his chest." The doctor was all business.

The sheriff released him, efficiently turned him, raised his head and placed a glass to his lips. "Here, drink this." The first taste of fire from the full-strength whiskey caught him by surprise, but then he welcomed it’s warmth and comfort. His knotted stomach eased as the pity of the liquid found his nerves. "This little touch of rye’ll probably help."

Pale and shaking, the boy avoided his eyes. "Thanks."

"Hey, look, I don’t know what happened to you out there, but you didn’t do anything, couldn’t have done anything, to deserve all you took. You want to talk about it, we’ll listen."

"No. Not now." He grew quiet, withdrawing into himself. "I don’t know that I’ll ever…"

"That’s okay, too."

"Can I be alone for a while?"

"Sure, in just a few minutes. Doc’s finishing up the torture for now. We’ll let you rest. Think you might could eat a bite?"

"No."

"Seems like a mighty long time since you ate…not even some broth?"

"No. Trust me…I’ll just get sick. Food’s not something I want right now."

"Well, okay…let you alone for a little while longer. You been through something like this before?"

"Yeah. Something like this, not as bad, but more than once."

"Damn. How old are you?"

"Nineteen. If I remember right, I turned nineteen about the time they quit beating me and left me alone in the wagon."

"Do you know how long it was that you were in there?"

"Was three days being dragged and beaten…might have been longer. Tried to make myself keep count. After they beat me the last time and the bastard shot me, I don’t know. Day, maybe two…no way of knowing. Guess his fists got sore. Walked up with a big grin on his face, put the gun real close to my side and pulled the trigger. I didn’t really care by then. But knew I couldn’t take it anymore. Worst was waking up when they tightened that collar." He lapsed into the memory. "You know. He promised me he’d come back to make sure I was finished off. I tried real hard to rob him of that little pleasure."

"You were damn close to succeeding."

"Might have been for the best."

"Giving up on life so quick."

"At the time, wasn’t much left to give up."

"When you’re better, it’ll be different."

"Maybe."

----------------------------------

Chapter 6

The men found him on his feet on the fifth morning, weaving with effort, face covered in sweat. He was tired of fighting, tired of hurting. He knew once he quit hurting, he could begin to deal with the memories. He had to start moving before he could hope to stop hurting. That was one lesson he had learned well from the past.

He had heard their voices coming down the hall and quickly determined the only way to face them and win this argument was to be on his feet…standing up like a man, not laying flat on his back, or stomach, on the bed. Winning meant a great deal to him just now. His voice was still husky and came out with little volume, but nobody could mistake the tenacity it conveyed.

"Okay, let’s get that wound probed again."

"NO!! You’re not gonna do that to me again, Riter. NO. All I need for now is a little whiskey so the pain will ease off."

"You’re gonna pull everything open again if you keep moving around like this. You want to maybe start all this over?" Riter was convinced he was up too soon.

"No."

"Then lay down. I figure you’ve got about five more rounds to go with that back and…."

"No, I don’t. You said yesterday there was no blood showing now…in any of it It’s over and done. It’ll heal. Let it go." They were beginning to learn about his willfulness.

"What about the rest of it. You’re not mended…."

"Mended enough. Been hurt before. I can guess what’s left, and I can handle it. I’m not gonna run nowhere." He gripped the iron bed railing until his knuckles were white. The room suddenly spun. His knees buckled.

"Just put him back on the bed and turn him over."

"Bascomb…just let him the hell alone." The sheriff caught him and put him back on the mattress. "He’s had enough." John walked to the nearby table and poured an ample amount of whiskey and a dollop of water into a glass.

"Did you find any of my gear?" He drank deeply from the offered glass.

"No. Only thing around there was that wagon, you, and one big mess."

"Clothes?"

"None that I saw?"

"Horses?"

"Didn’t see any?"

"Bay….big brute…a biter…answers to Loco. Sorrel…nice horse, strong and steady…called Charlie, were at the livery in Eldorada the night they got me." Chris doggedly pushed himself up off the bed, standing again to face the others.

"Sorry, no horses anywhere around."

"Well….I’ll go find them later. If they had em and turned em loose, Loco’ll stay pretty close to the spot. Don’t think nobody’ll be able to touch him. Charlie’ll be more sensible, not likely to run, but he’ll just mosey where the grass leads."

"You think you ought to plan to take those men on again over a pair of horses?"

"My horses….my life….my business. Yeah….why shouldn’t I take them on?" He began to move, slowly and cautiously, holding his side, but forcing his brutalized body to accept his commands.

"Seems like what you’ve been through would have proved you’re too young to take on the likes of that one."

"Shoot. I ain’t too young. Just let my guard down a bit. Got too confident. Anyway, I won’t be alone…least I don’t think I will."

"You know who did this? Was it just one man?"

"No…there were three of them. Knew the leader…at least his name. Called himself Justice."

"Any idea why he’d come after you?"

He lowered himself into a chair near the window, taking a deep breath as he braced himself for the motion. "Most likely because I killed his brothers… damn, that hurts."

"You killed his brother. And his brother was…"

"Name was Norris Braddock."

"Norris Braddock? I heard a kid got him. That was you?"

"Three years ago…"

"Well, I sure heard of you all right. Talk says you called him out in the middle of the street in Springfield. Shot him before he had a chance to draw."

"Shoot. I shot him in the street all right…but I didn’t call him out, and it was in Owenville…when he and his boys tried to escape custody for killing my ma and pa. He had a gun. He had a gun out and firing. Shot me before I got him."

"Custody? You couldn't have been the law then? Told the Judge you might have been, but not at no sixteen."

"No. Just riding with Ethan and Sam to try to clear my name. Since then, I killed Jeff Braddock in Wheatland. That was a little more than two years ago. He was one mean rattlesnake. No warning. I was minding my own business one minute, next minute he was calling my name. Couldn't say anything to talk him out of it. First time I had to stand and look a man in the eyes, face to face, and know I had to kill him or die. I didn’t know him, didn’t have one thing against that man…but he wanted to kill me, so I killed him like he was my worst nightmare. Amazing thing was I didn’t have any regrets."

"How many more you figure there are?"

"Enough."

"Judge was right. You are a gunslinger, whether you’ll admit it or not."

"Not. I’m just a man looking for a life and trying to stay away from trouble. This was the first one who ever caught me because I wasn’t thinking though. Last time that someone ever catches me like that."

"You ain’t doing a real good job of it, now are you?"

"No. It just keeps looking for me. I just keep trying to outrun it. Not gonna happen, I guess…outrunning it."

The room grew silent. He stood again and walked to the window…he was thinking. He nodded his head to himself, absently. He turned and looked at John, a questioning look on his face, "John, would you be willing to do something for me?"

"Depends."

"Send two telegrams. I’ll pay you back when I can."

"No need for that. Who to?"

"Ethan Collins in Patomka."

"And Sam Gates?…you calling out the other law?"

"No. Second goes to my brother, Mitch, in Wheatland."

"He a gunslinger? You got a gang going?"

"No. Only damn gunslinger I know might be me, but it wasn’t what I was brought up to be. My brother’s a riverman turned farmer, but he’s one you want when you’re in a fix. They both are. If this ain’t a fix, I don’t know what is."

"Can you write?"

"Yes. I can write. Least I can write if my hand will hold up."

"It should, and you’re not planning to send a book are you? Write down what you want said, and I’ll take em to the office."

"And one more thing."

"If I can."

"Think I could maybe find some clothes? This damn blanket keeps falling off."

"Doc’s kept you out of clothes on purpose. Needed easy reach for those wounds and didn’t want you tempted to move around too much. You bust any more stitches trying to move about before he says so, Doc’ll bust you right back. I’ll find you something, but you might as well accept it…you’re not going anywhere for a while.

"We’ll see."

-----------------------

Chapter 7

"He must be okay now, Margie. He wants me to come, but says real emphatically that I’m to leave you here. You’re staying with Clara Hicks, and you aren’t gonna make this hard by giving me your back talk. You come out and look over the place while I’m gone. You know well enough what needs doing, and the wheat’s mostly a bust anyway. Ask some of the boys to help you keep things in hand. You ask, they’ll jump fast enough. But be nice to them, okay. Chris don’t say it, but he’s been hurt, else he wouldn’t ask for help. If he’s been hurt bad, there’s trouble around him again, and he don’t want or need to have to worry that you’ll get caught up in it."

Mitch Larabee finished packing as he talked to his much younger sister. Her reddish-blond hair, so like in color to that of her brother Chris, cascaded over her shoulders. She was a beautiful girl. She still wore the signature green ribbons, a tradition started by her much missed brother. She could be a real charmer when she wanted, but at the moment her green eyes spit flecks of fire that showed her for the hellion she could be.

"I want to go. If he’s hurt, I can help. I’ve learned plenty from Doc and blood doesn’t scare me."

"I don’t know that there’s all that much blood to tend to, at least not now. He’s at least up enough to be thinking and making plans. Now, darling, look…just stay here. I promise, if I get there and there’s no reason for him to leave you out of things, I’ll send you a ticket for the stage."

"You going to find Ethan?"

"I’m off to Patomka right now. Take me almost two days to get there. Figure Ethan’s waiting…Chris said he sent him word. We’ll probably leave on the third day from now."

"Where’s Chris at?"

"Place called Norrisville…over the line in Illinois."

"What did he need you to bring?"

"Full kit. Clothes, holster, guns, ammunition, horses."

"He’s lost Charlie and Loco?"

"Evidently. Says to bring a little money too."

"He say what happened?"

"Not one word. Just said come."

"If he’s hurt, I bet he’s mad. Whoever’s hurt him….I wouldn’t want to be them."

"Neither would I."

"Don’t you two go leaving me in the dark. You let me know how he is and what’s happening. I hate you for leaving me here…you know that."

"Yeah, I know that….you’ll just have to get over it."

"Well…you tell him I hate him too for treating me like a kid. Tell him I’ll get him back first chance I get."

"I’ll tell him."

"And tell him I miss him, and to not be so stupid. Okay?"

"Sure." He ruffled her tresses, mounted his horse, gathered the reins for it and the pack animals, and headed for Patomka. He stopped only as he found necessary for the horses, and for a small amount of food and rest. He knew his brother. If he had sent a telegram, not written a letter, and if he had left out Margie, it was most likely things in his life had gone to hell again. Moving steadily, he made it to Patomka a little quicker than he had anticipated, and lost no time in finding Ethan Collins. He found himself bunking in Ethan’s jail…just as Chris had done the first time he’d met the man….not locked in, just using the bed since Ethan’s home had no spare room. They made plans well into the night.

"Were you able to locate a rig like he needs?"

"Yeah. Got him a holster, .44 similar to the one he had. Got him a Winchester sorta like your pa’s. I think it’s a tad lighter though. Plenty of ammunition for both."

"What about clothes. He was smaller than me last time I saw him. But just scrawnier, not shorter. Was it the same when he left here?"

"Yeah. Martha says to get the pants long, shirts big. Even when he’s hurt, he hates shirts being too tight. Messes up his ability to move. We’ll just have to have a look at him and get stuff in Norrisville. If he’s been lumbering, he might have grown a might. Did he mention boots?"

"No. All this makes me wonder if he’s running around buck naked."

Ethan laughed, "Sure sounds like it, don’t it. Wonder how he came to loose everything? Shoot, sounds like that boy’s pride’s been damaged pretty good."

"Wouldn’t it be good if that’s all that’s hurt this time."

"Not likely though. If it was just his pride, he’d shut up and deal with it. Wouldn’t anybody ever know. If he asking for help, he’s got a real need."

"I figure he’s hurt."

"What makes you say that?"

"He said something like he needed me as bad as he needed me when Pa died…when Pa died, he was hurting like the devil from where Pa had beaten him. Just made me think he might be hurt now, too."

"Wasn’t gonna mention it…but the message I got said he needed me to help him get right again. Thought he was probably hurt, too. He wanted to make sure we both knew it was serious."

"I brought one horse. Like Loco, but black. Same stud, different dame. Same bull-headed temper too. Thought it’d be good to get that one with somebody who’d know how to make him behave. Didn’t have one near as good as Charlie, though. Chris’ll miss him."

"Let’s check with Warren. He knows what’s available around here. He knows horses and Chris. He’ll most likely get us the right match for him."

"You got your own needs tended to? Martha okay with this?"

"Says she is. I know she’s not. As pregnant as she is, she’s temperamental at best. But it’s Chris, and she’s not gonna say one word about me going. She’d go too if she could."

"Well, he’ll be about her like he is about Margie….he won’t want her getting in danger or getting hurt…especially when he knows you two have a little one coming."

"Did he ever tell you about her..about Martha?"

"Know she was real special to him. He really loves her."

"She was nearly his second mother. I was a real close friend, but he’d listen to her when he wouldn’t hear a word I said. You know she killed a man saving him?"

"What?"

"He tell you about the bounty hunters in Patomka, back when he was running?"

"Yeah…said he shot two of them."

"He shot one…the one that shot me. But he got trapped by the other one. The son-of-a-bitch was gonna shoot him in the back of the head…only Martha shot him first."

"Why’d he say he did it, then?"

"To protect Martha. Carter Masters told him his bunch would look for whoever killed those two…and Chris told him he’d done it."

"That’s just what I’d figure he’d do. He’s not a bad boy, Ethan. There’s just no sense in why he can’t get free from all this and have a good life. You think it’s all the same trouble this time?"

"Don’t know….just have to go see. I’ll be ready to go by morning. You?"

"Got one little stop to make."

"What’d we overlook?"

"A hat….and candy."

"Candy?"

"Yeah, Margie made me promise to take him a big bag of red hots or black licorice. That girl’s more uppity than ever, but I promised…and you better believe she’ll check to make sure I kept my word."

"Okay, then. Let’s be ready early, and just go see if we can’t help things get better."

By sunup, they were already on the trail, heading for Norrisville, probably three days ride away. The black horse fought Ethan’s lead. A truly special sorrel, nearly a twin for his brother’s favorite, trotted spiritedly but obediently at Mitch’s side.

Chapter 8

After two more days of arguing about confinement, he was more tired than anything else, tired and weak. He spent most of his time upstairs sleeping when he needed to avoid everything and everyone that plagued his body or his brain, or he sat at the table in his room, wearing his too short pants and too tight shirt, waiting for news of their arrival.

He wasn’t allowed to try the stairs alone, and truth known, he didn’t feel like it anyway. On the two occasions he was able to complain loudly and persistently enough to get his way, a burly houseman named Hector installed him at the corner table in the first floor common room in early afternoon. He stayed there for as long as he could. That suited him well. While he watched the lively goings-on in the ‘social club,’ the music, the gaming, the preening of the ‘gentlemen callers,’ he didn’t think so much about the lingering pain and stiffness.

While he sat, wherever he was, whenever it was quiet, he thought. His plans focused on revenge and came from a mind that was clouded with dark thoughts of what he had endured. He spoke of what had really happened to no one…it was none of their business.

Holly came to his room on a regular schedule…after all it was her place. She insisted on keeping him clean, seeing that the bed linens were kept spotless, and changing his bandages herself every morning before noon and every evening before bed. Whenever she was near, he was nervous. He knew it wasn’t her fault, he knew he owed her his life, but somehow that didn’t count for much of anything.

She pushed him to eat, but he had no appetite. His stomach was just as it always was when he was hurting, so he fought her every attempt to put food in his mouth. "If you don’t eat anything at all, your stomach won’t get used to handling anything. If you don’t eat, your strength won’t come back."

"Look…just leave it alone. I’ll eat when I’m ready. What you can do for me is bring me some whiskey."

"If you won’t eat food, you can’t have whiskey. I own the bar, and I won’t let them give you any. And don’t go asking Bess to bring it to you. She does, I’ll fire her. I run the best place in this state, so if you get her fired, it’ll be a real injury to her."

"I won’t ask her, but I’ll make a deal with you….one spoon of soup, one drink of whiskey."

"One bowl of soup…one small sip of whiskey, and it’s not debatable."

"Shoot."

"It’s just not right. How long’s it been since you started drinking that much?"

"I don’t drink that much." His temper flared at the connotation in her question.

"Was the first thing you asked for after you came around. Must be pretty important."

"I can take it or leave it."

"Then leave it. I’ll tell them you don’t want anymore."

"No need to go getting so hard nosed about it."

She made a pact with the girl. Bess could be released from entertaining some of the less appealing clients, ones who frequently requested her, if she would keep the often hostile man occupied and manage to get him to eat anything at all. His sitting in the parlor, looking so pale and sickly, wasn’t helping business.

He had taken a liking to Bess, so long as she kept a distance. She was a sweet natured woman/child, pretty, quick witted and bubbly but not silly. At first she tried to talk with him, but she found him to be a man of very few words. A brooder, a watcher. She did manage to discover little things. He admired a little figure on the mantle above the fireplace, saying if he had wood, he could try to whittle again. She brought him a small block of very nice cherry and a finely honed knife, plus a small tray to catch the shavings. He worked slowly at first, stopping frequently to ease cramps in his partially bandaged right hand, the one with the two broken fingers. He was often displeased with his efforts. He wasn’t a quitter, though, and soon he had a little dove, though much rougher than he liked, finished and ready to put in her hand. Working on the wood put some of the dexterity back into the stiffened hand and damaged wrists.

Her livelihood depended on discerning what a man wanted, and, frankly, she was good at it. She watched this man quietly, often from a far corner so he wasn’t pestered by her presence. She could tell from the expressions that crossed his face when he hurt, when he had dark thoughts, when he was mostly at peace. She noticed other small things, like his stare at a customer who smoked a fine little sheroot. That afternoon, without a word, she placed a small plate of creamed potatoes and a fork in front of him. The potatoes were finished simply, with only a little milk, a small dot of butter, a little salt, and much less pepper. Beside the plate she placed one of Holly’s best smokes, and then she teasingly waved in front of him a tin of matches.

He looked up from his work, his head tilted partially to one side, a cocky half-grin on his face. "What’s this…A bribe?"

"Yes, if you must know, a bribe. You eat the potatoes, Holly says you can have the cigar. You don’t eat them, I won’t give you the matches."

"Hard bargain. What if I puke in these fine surroundings? Might hamper business a bit."

"A few potatoes aren’t going to mess up your stomach. These stay put, we’ll try some mashed beans tomorrow."

"If I’ve got to eat mashed beans to please you, I get a big glass of whiskey… right?" He smiled. It was a small smile, but by now, behind his eyes, there were twinkling hints of a rakish personality she had not seen before.

"You eat all the beans, and a few potatoes too, and you can have a little bit of whiskey, and maybe another smoke."

"A little whiskey, two smokes, and matches too."

"Okay…it’s a deal." She leaned forward and gave him a full, lingering kiss on the lips.

The smile vanished. He pulled back, his temper barely contained, "Don’t ever do that again."

"Well…I’m sorry. Guess I though you liked me, cowboy."

She backed up quickly, amazed at the change, at the snarl that cracked in her direction, "Don’t you ever….ever…call me a cowboy!!"

---------------------------------

Chapter 9

He was sleeping, but not well. Memories of other kisses plagued his dreams. At least the night had turned cooler because the rain was final falling and a soft breeze added to its comfort. But it was early morning, and his fever, though slight, was up again. As he turned in his sleep, he was suddenly back in the wagon…back on that bench…. hot… hurting … neck being yanked toward the wall…feeling searing pain….. begging….knowing there was no escape. Maniacal laughter and blood.

"Chris….Chris…wake up. It’s okay."

"No….no….please!!" He swung at the tormentors above him, but the blows that landed were too feeble to make much of an impression. He sat upright, holding his arms to his body as his wrists and hand ached.

"Wake up, kid. Easy. We’re here."

"Easy…..easy, now."

"God….no….." He finished his waking and recognized the two he waited for. The lamp that someone lit strained his eyes, but that was okay with him. "Thank God…Mitch……Ethan……I thought……….…"

The brother clasped the boy in his arms. "Thought what?"

Ethan moved around the room, lighting more lamps to let them see his condition.

Mitch studied him, quietly, waiting for his brother to speak first.

"You came."

"Yeah. Said you needed us. Looks like you do, boy. You gonna tell me what happened to you, or you gonna make me get it little by little."

"Braddock."

"Thought they had let up coming after you. How long’s it been since you met up with one of them?"

"Haven’t had to face one since Wheatland, but from what Justice said, he’s been trailing me, watching me, for some time."

"You didn’t know that?" It was Ethan who was surprised. "Thought you were better than that a long time ago."

"Me too."

"What happened?" Mitch could ask all he wanted, but Chris wasn’t ready to answer. He thought it would be easy to tell them, but it wasn’t easy at all.

"You look like hell."

"You talked with John Hill? He found me."

"No. Woman downstairs says he’ll be back tomorrow. Why do I have to wait to hear anything from him. Don’t know him. I know you."

"Out with it, kid."

"Ain’t no kid!"

"Fact that you have to say that proves to me that you’ve probably been acting like one. Now, just take a deep breath, lay back, and tell us why you had us come all this way."

"I need your help."

"Said that in the telegram. Why do you need our help, other than the fact you look like something that's been run over by the stage."

"Got to get ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Fight."

"From the looks of it, you lost the last one."

"Yeah, and the bastards are still alive."

"When you left Patomka, you were too tough by then to loose to any Braddock. How did you loose this one? What happened."

"There were three of them."

"So… What’s that got to do with it? There were three in Owenville."

"Yeah…and I lost that one, too!" He refused to meet Ethan’s gaze.

"You didn’t loose in the end."

"Only because you and Sam got there in time."

"Only had to get into it because you walked into it blind…. You that stupid this time, too? What did you do?"

"I…."

"What did you do?"

"I got drunk, and I….."

"DRUNK!! You don’t drink that much….at least you never have. Don’t you know that can get you killed….get people around you killed!!!"

"I was worn down. I needed….. There was this girl in Eldorada…."

"I don’t care who there was in Eldorada! I taught you better than this in Patomka!"

"Pa would have…."

"Would have what?!!" He came off the bed, swaying in weakness. "Would have done what, Mitch?!! Beat me until I was near dead? Until I ran, just like you did?…like Frank did?…like I would have done if he hadn’t been killed? To hell with what Pa would have done. That bunch did it for him." He went almost instantly from growls to deathly silence… pulling into himself. Avoiding the memories of trouble and pain. There had been too much of that.

Was it anger, embarrassment, self-loathing, just pain and an ache from loneliness? Mitch knew it was probably all of it, and even more besides. "Look. It don’t matter why they got to you. What do we need to do?"

"First, help me get back on my feet."

"Gonna take a lot of work."

"I’ll work. I ain’t afraid of work, but right now I can’t pick myself up from this bed much less the floor."

"Plan on us training again when you’re well?"

"Yeah. Somewhere along the line I’ve lost myself. I know I can fight, but I’ve gotten lazy…or stupid. I don’t know which got me caught, but I don’t want it to ever happen again."

"After that’s done?"

"Help me find my horses if we can…get Charlie and Loco back."

"That’s not the last of it, is it?

"No. I want your help me kill the bastards that did this." He said it plainly and coldly, without embellishment or movement from the spot where he stood. Both men looked at his eyes and realized that, whatever had happened to the boy, something that had always made him stand apart from those who would kill without feeling might have died at his captors’ hands.

"You gone mean enough to do that? You that hard?"

"I don’t know. But I intend to find out. They owe me. I owe myself. Will you help me?"

"What did they do to you?"

"Don’t ask me that."

"We are asking you that."

"When we get an answer, we’ll decide just exactly how far we’ll go in helping you with this."

"I’ll have to think about it."

---------------------------------------

Chapter 10

"She says you aren’t eating anything, Chris."

He was tired of Ethan taking him apart. "I’ll eat when I’m ready. Tell Holly to just lay off."

"It was Bess. Said she couldn’t even bribe you any more, not unless it was with whiskey. When exactly are you gonna be ready. A plate of potatoes once in a while isn’t gonna get you on your feet."

"I eat, I get sick. You know how it is." He was immensely tired of them both taking him apart, pushing him to be sensible. He wasn’t in a mood to be sensible.

"If you don’t start eating, we’re not gonna start working on anything. Won’t let you near the horses. I’m bringing in a plate at lunch today, and I expect you to at least try everything….one bite of everything, no less."

"Hell. I don’t want nothing to eat."

"Look, you little fool. It’s NOT eating that’s keeping you sick. Now, I can go one of two ways with this." Mitch came to stand directly in front of him. His face held an expression that let his "little" brother know who was firmly in charge, and who was determined to be obeyed for a change. "I can send for Margie and let her tend to you."

He was suddenly afraid, his hands shook, and his voice told them he would beg for this, too…"NO! Mitch…no. You can’t bring her here. Promise me…. don’t send for her."

"You gonna eat."

"No. But promise me…that’s not an option, whether I eat or not."

"Look then, if Margie isn’t coming, I expect you to eat on your own. If you don’t start on your own, then I’ll just tell Doc there’s got to be something wrong inside your gut. Maybe something he can give you will get your system cleaned out enough to make room for a few bites along."

"Mitch….you son-of-a…."

"Watch your mouth, kid."

"You wouldn’t….You wouldn’t turn him lose to do nothing like that to me. I couldn’t take….."

"I can be just as pigheaded as you can be…and it’s time I started. I’ve made you mind me before. Now, you want a plate of food, or a visit from Doc."

On the third day after the confrontation, a small piece of black licorice hung from his mouth as he looked in the mirror at the clothes he wore. The licorice was the dessert he had earned by eating an entire piece of chicken and a small amount of beans. He had to admit that, after the first two rough days when his prophesy about the results of putting food in his body came impressively true, he was beginning to adjust to having a little food in his stomach again.

Black…everything was black, except for the new pearl handled .44 and the silver trim on his holster, belt, and shirt. "Thanks, boys. I think I am beginning to feel better. It’s hard to feel good when your britches are too short." There were more things on the bed. A small, neat bundle of good clothes…nothing second hand….all in black or dark blue. The only thing he missed were his old boots…boots of any kind. He knew they left them out on purpose…so he couldn’t get around too much. Well, he’d take care of that himself…when he could find some money.

Mitch looked at him, seeing his little brother on one hand; seeing a much older, more than dangerous man on the other. "Margie said to tell you she hates you."

"What for this time?" Now that he knew she was safe from Mitch’s threat, mention of her name brought a smile to his pale face.

"Making her stay behind. But she said she loves you too, and to quit being stupid. Oh, and she made me bring that licorice for you."

"Tell her thanks for remembering the candy, and tell her John Hill says I’m not good for much except being stupid, and so do you and Ethan. And tell her I’m really sorry. I want to see her, but I just can’t stand the thought of her getting hurt. If anything happens to her….."

"You mention my name? Here, got you this." Ethan threw something at him.

He caught the incoming rifle in his left hand. "Brand new Winchester? Damn, Ethan, it must have cost you a fortune." He sat on the bed, running his hand over the barrel, noticing the engraved marking on the stock. "Pa’s brand?"

"Your brand. Still your family seal. Mitch got it put on."

"You willing to have the family name linked to a gunslinger like me?" He eyed his brother, needing acceptance and reassurance.

"Who says you’re a gunslinger?"

"Most people I meet. You know that judge was gonna chain me up again until he could wire Wheatland to see if I was still wanted. They still had one of those last posters on file in John’s office. I swear, if that man had put another chain on me right then, I think I’d have tried to kill him."

"Told me you didn’t put up a fuss. That’s more like who you are. Don’t go making yourself out to be a desparado. You’re still a kid."

"Not any more. Not ever anymore." He rose, shoving the sadness he knew was there away from his eyes and voice. "Hey, when can we go try this?"

"How’s your hand…that shoulder? Can you load it yet or pull the lever?"

"Hand’s stiff…I still can’t feel my fingers much. Shoulder’s not bad….the cuts are healing pretty well, but the burns are still real sore. I think the worst part’s still my side and my right leg."

"Just exactly what did they do to you?"

"You think I’ll get that right leg to come right again this time. Hurt it before, and it was hard coming around."

"Truth?" Ethan studied him.

"Yeah…guess I might as well hear truth."

"It’ll heal well enough for now; it and your back. You won’t notice too much after the initial soreness finally leaves, say couple of months to get it all worked out. Later’s when it’ll surprise you. Give it another ten years, it’ll ache when it rains or you’ll find yourself limping when you strain it or try to move fast. Give it twenty years, if you and your hard head are still in this world, it’ll be the first thing to make you feel real old. Best you can do is learn to accept it, live with it, and mostly ignore it."

"Why were you up around Eldorada? Why were you away from the lumber camp? Thought you had work promised through the summer." Mitch thought this tactic might get him to open up, at least a little.

"I lost my job." So the lumber camp wasn’t where the problem started. He talked about this willingly enough.

"How? Thought you were getting a good reputation there."

"Yeah, me too. You remember that idiot named Spikes I wrote you about?"

"Sure. Said he was a hothead….you get tangled up with him again?"

"Yeah, couldn’t stay away from him. Markham put me to topping trees. I was really pretty good at it, liked doing it….height didn’t bother me. Well, everybody started calling me Topper…just a nickname for a green kid…I knew that. Was fun having them let me fit in. But it made Spikes some-kind of mad. Called himself Top Hat…thought my nickname was meant to belittle him. He’d started a couple of fights with me…he always threw the first punch….never lasted long. He was bigger, but I was faster. He was lots meaner, but boy was he stupid. I figured he just liked to fight….reminded me of when Ethan and I went rounds together. Boss would just dock his pay for creating a disturbance, and we’d both go back to work.

Well, we had a little mid-season log splitting contest. Prize was twenty-five dollars, almost a month’s wages. Spikes really wanted that prize money. Last round, I wound up against him. Boss called go, we started wailing on the logs. I got ahead of him when he hit a glance shot and had to wrangle his axe back into line. I won. He said I cheated. How the hell do you cheat at chopping wood, can you answer me that? Anyway, he threw a punch, the place broke into a brawl, and while he and I were punching each other, I hit him a good uppercut. He fell against one of the timbers and cut his eye out on a sharp needle. He blamed me for doing it on purpose. I didn’t…it was just a brawl."

"How’d that cost you your job?"

"Boss put us at opposite ends of the camp then. Said we weren’t to meet up for a month. I just went back to work, hoped he would too. But he didn’t forget, wouldn’t let it go. Couple of weeks ago, a week before all this mess, he came into camp. He came up behind me at the food table and said he was gonna pay me back for ruining his face. Shoot, he didn’t have much of a face to begin with, but he was proud of it, I guess. Anyway, when he said what he did, I took one look at the big axe handle he had in his fist, and I hauled off and hit him. I didn’t stop hitting him until he dropped the axe handle and didn’t try to pick it up again. Then I just went to my tent to soak my hands. Boss came in later and said I was getting to be as bad a brawler as Spikes. Said he couldn’t have both us hotheads in camp together, and Spikes had seniority, so I’d best pack my bags and get. He tried to be fair…said he would pay me a couple of weeks’ wages to help me get a new start, and asked if I still had my prize money from the contest. I did, so it wasn’t gonna be a big dry spell. I knew I could find work. Thought at first I’d go find another timber outfit, but after I thought about how much money I had, I decided to take a little break and have a little celebration."

"Celebration? What were you celebrating? Loosing a perfectly good job? You always were a knothead."

"No, Mitch. Celebrating my birthday. It was just a week or so away. I figured I’d ride for a few days…see some country real leisurely, then have a little party in honor of the day. Thought I’d take two weeks maybe, then I’d go find myself another job. It was prize money, Mitch. I just wanted to cut loose a little."

"Seems like a mighty poor use of good money to me."

"You mean you never wanted time off….never maybe took shore leave?" Chris looked him straight in the eye, challenging him to tell the truth.

"Well….sure, I took shore leave."

"And you never went looking for a little ‘celebration’?" He mocked his brother with a cocky, head-tilted stare.

"Well….yeah…but I wasn’t no green kid."

"Were you maybe eighteen or nineteen?"

"Yeah. Come to think of it, I was about that age first time I cut loose. When did you get so old?"

"When did you turn into Pa?"

--------------------------------------------

Chapter 11

"I want to go look at the horses. You tell me about em, then won’t let me see them. Is that one really Loco’s brother?"

"Yep. His old pappy still has a few good seasons left. Bonny Blue’s as dependable as you’d want…drops em easy as butter. I haven’t encouraged you to see em because first thing you’ll want to do is ride that fool."

"I can ride him."

"For now, that’s just plain stupid."

"I could ride him."

"He’s Loco’s brother….except that he’s black and not bay, he’s like him in every way there is."

"Biter?"

"Yeah. Kicker, sunfisher."

"I can’t wait."

"Yes, you can. But I know you’re tired of being cooped up here. In honor of your new duds, we’re going to take you out around town tonight. Get us some supper…do some serious talking."

"Do we have too? Can’t we just go downstairs and have some whiskey?"

"We're not gonna have any more whiskey going down your throat, do you hear me. What we are gonna have is some serious talk about this propensity you’ve developed for strong drink….then tomorrow, we’ll go look at the horses. Knothead."

"Pro-pen-si-what???"

"Smart-ass. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about." The conversation deteriorated through the night. At the restaurant,, he listened, but he didn’t much talk. He sat is silence, just letting words drift past him, trying desperately not to get angry enough to take a swing at the man he loved and respected. Too much had happened, too much that he hated, too much he preferred to keep bottled up inside. If his brother didn’t quit pushing at him soon, didn’t leave him alone, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He tried one last ploy, "You’d think you could just let me finish my dinner in peace. I don’t want to talk about this while I try to eat. You keep harping at me to eat, then you make eating pure hell. Just let it go for now, okay?"

"I want to know what happened to you, Chris." Mitch sat at the table in Chris’ room at Holly’s Social Club. The conversation had moved locations, but it was going no better than it had before. The older man was asking the same questions he had asked repeatedly throughout the evening. "All you’ve done tonight is try to ignore this. How do you expect us to help you, if you won’t say one damn word about how all this got started?" It was late, and he was tired. Chris simply paced, a streak of stubborn determination showing. Ethan stood quietly in the corner, disappearing as much as possible into the shadows. He’d decided early on to let the brother handle this one. Chris had simply avoided the questions about what had happened, avoided them with as much skill as he had with a six-shooter. Ethan would have backed off and let the boy alone long ago. He didn’t know why Mitch wasn’t yet sporting at least one black eye.

"That’s a fine black. Ethan, tell Warren thanks." He’d insisted on at least visiting the livery on the way back from dinner. Another ploy, but it wasn’t working either.

"JUST STOP IT!!!" Mitch banged his fist on the table. "I’m not gonna put up with this anymore. You’re not gonna ignore me again. You asked for our help. We can’t help until we know what we’re facing. How bad were you hurt? Show me… now." He reached up, taking hold of Chris’ shirt, reaching for buttons.

"No…you already saw! You saw enough. Let me alone."

"Don’t play games. You know you've moved around enough, ducked it enough, to keep anything from being clear. Take that shirt off, pants too."

"No!" He pulled sharply away, retreating, but there was nowhere to run.

"What’s wrong? You ashamed of something?"

So that was it. There was silence from the corner where the younger man had retreated. Mitch could see the pain, and it was close to boiling over. They needed everything out in the open. He pushed again, but with a touch of understanding to make it easier to confess.

"There’s nothing to be ashamed of here, Chris. They hurt you…that’s all….you didn’t ask for it."

"Oh, didn’t I?!" The shell began to crack, bitterness pouring out first.

"What do you mean?"

"It was my own damn fault. I didn't see it coming."

"How could all that have been your fault."

"That woman….I….I was drunk. I was so drunk I was just plain stupid. She asked me to go to her room, I took her to mine She was real pretty….I remember she smelled like flowers….shiny blonde hair."

"So. I don’t generally recommend going with saloon girls, but…."

"I was her mark." The water glass in his hand suddenly sailed across the room and crashed into the fireplace. "Played me for a damn stupid fool."

"What?"

"Braddock must have paid her. Late that night, " He blushed at the memories he withheld from his brother, memories that would never be anyone’s business but his own, "She helped me open another bottle of whiskey. Was good whiskey, but it tasted kind of strange…oily. Next thing I knew I was soaking wet, running, then being dragged, behind this horse. Then I woke up in that wagon, without a stitch on, and Braddock got down to some real mean business. God, how could I have been so damn stupid."

Ethan seethed in his corner. "You little idiot, little half-witted, green horn idiot. Don't you remember a woman named Mable?"

"Mable?"

"Fancy woman at the saloon in Patomka?"

"Yeah….oh, yeah…the woman you caught me with when I was about, what, sixteen? She was my friend, Ethan. Wasn't nothing between us except talk back then."

"Still, don't you remember what I told you?"

"No."

"Obviously you don’t. Well, boy, I told you then that when it came to saloon girls, shoot, to fancy women in general, you couldn’t trust em, not with the truth, not with your money, and never with your life. Don’t you remember nothing we ever taught you?"

"Sometimes not until it’s way too late. Well, I sure paid for it."

"You damn sure did….sorry to say, but you did."

"What did they do to you."

"Hell, Mitch…….."

"You don’t talk about it, it’ll fester and eat you up inside. Sit down, and tell us."

He paced in the looming silence. When he finally settled into a chair, his words came out in whispered monotones…sounding as alone as he felt inside. "Told me who he was. Told me what they were gonna do. Told me why. Then they just beat me until I decided it was about time to just die."

"Do tell." Ethan was still angry, letting sarcasm show his disapproval of Chris’ failure.

"Shut up, Ethan. Leave him alone. Go on, Chris."

"The first night…after they got me, they tied me to the back of a horse and took me, dragged me, to wherever it was they had that wagon. When we got there, all I remember are hands, boots, and fists. Over, and over, and over. I knew how broke ribs feel…and I knew I had them. Hit and slapped me so much I was nearly blind and almost deaf. They didn’t ask anything, didn’t say anything, just kept hitting me. I passed out, finally…wasn't near soon enough.

Next morning. Braddock took his first turn. He had a strop like Pa’s. He’d stand way back and sort of pop me with it. Not hard to start with. Just pestered me. It stung like a swarm of bees, never knew where it was gonna land. Put my teeth on edge. He got tired of it, then tied my wrists with the leather, wet it, and hauled my arms up my back. Hung me from the branch of a tree for awhile. I think that pulled at least one shoulder out of its socket. Hurt like hell. Offered me water, but poured it on the ground in front of me. I knew then it was going to get real hot and thirsty before he got through. Threw me in the back of the wagon and locked the door. The whiskey was wearing off about then, and I got sick the first time. The heat didn’t help any, but I was too sick to much care about it."

"They spent that afternoon with pestering little things, too. Found some thin little switches, reminded me of ones like Ma used to get to go after Margie, but they were lots thicker, and those boys knew how to raise welts with em real good. I think they were a little disappointed with how that worked out. It hurt, but it wasn’t horrible. Wasn't nothing like what Pa could do with one, so I wasn’t kicking up much of a fuss. Truth known, I was too damn tired from puking my guts out. That was about the end of the first day. They tied my feet and legs real tight and threw me back in the wagon. Got real liquored up…I could hear em laughing way into the night.

I figured that box would be hot even at night. I was wrong. They didn’t put a blanket in. I got so cold…I guess I had fever, just enough to make the cold feel worse. I don’t think I slept any, I was too busy trying to find a way out. There was a sharp edge on the back bench. I tried to scrape the ropes off my hands, or pull a cord loose. Figured it might take another day to get it worn through, but figured I could take another day if it didn’t get too much worse. Kept hoping they’d get tired and just ride off somewhere.

By the second morning, I was empty and my head hurt like hell. I kept my hands down hoping they wouldn’t see the work I was doing on the ropes. I’d gotten them to give a little, could almost get my right hand under the first loop. I was feeling pretty smart and cocky about that. Well, first thing Braddock did when he dragged me out that morning, was check the ropes. He found what I had been up to. He shoved me down in the dirt and stepped on my hand to pay me back for "being a bad boy." God, I got to where I hated that phrase. I think that’s when my fingers broke….my hand went numb for a while, but it was resting in some soft dirt, and I started yelling the minute he started stepping, so he didn’t quite break everything. They kicked me around pretty good. Braddock spent the rest of the morning trying to pester me with food. Way I felt, food wasn’t a problem at all.

"He didn’t hurt you any more then?"

He laughed a miserable little laugh. "He just gave me to Fisk." Then, he was silent for a moment or two, gathering courage to face it all again, leaving the chair to pace the room. "That’s when it started getting bad. Fisk has a thing for knives…little, thin bladed, razor sharp knives. Said the one he’d chosen just for me was a bear-skinning knife. Braddock told him as long as he didn’t kill me, he could take his time doing me. He tied me to the wheel….God, Mitch……"

A glass appeared in front of him. His hands shook as he gulped the fiery contents. Ethan quietly returned to the shadows.

"How long that go on?" Mitch was almost as pale as his brother.

"I don’t know. He claimed he was an expert. Doc said he was real good or real careful one. If he’d have cut much deeper anywhere, he’d have hit something important, and I’d have bled to death. Instead, he took the top layers of skin. He did the first two cuts, and I was hurting so bad I sure wasn't quiet anymore ….but then he rubbed something into them, and I started screaming. I must have passed out. I know I screamed a lot first…."

"Probably the salt John noticed. Bet your life, you screamed."

"Came to a couple of times….always more of the same…except after a time he got good enough that he didn’t let me quite pass out. Just made it hurt more and more. After he worked on my back, he turned me around and started on my chest.

After the first one on the front, he got a little sloppy. I had pulled against the ties enough to get one hand loose, other one close. He was leaning in to take another swatch and I got a lick in, then another with my fists locked together. Caught him pretty good, pulled away, and made it about half way to one of the horses. Didn’t even know there was a rope on my feet. Braddock just pulled me down, then he hung me up by my heels and let the blood rush to my head for awhile. When he cut me down, he called me a "bad boy," tied me to the wheel again, and beat me front and back til I dropped. That time, it was just hell. There was blood everywhere. Then he let Fisk finish what he was doing for another little while. After Fisk got through with me, it didn’t really matter….I wasn’t sane enough to know what was going on anymore.

That night, they put a canteen in the wagon with me. I made myself work hard to get to it. I needed water. I got it to my mouth finally and got a little sip. It wasn’t water…at least it wasn’t good water. I spent the rest of the night heaving whatever it was. I could taste blood, and my stomach was on fire.

I don’t remember a lot of the next day. I do remember Carouthers. Braddock spent the first part of the morning beating me with the strop again. He hit me harder and harder, but he wasn’t getting too much satisfaction from it. I kept passing out on him. He said Carouthers would make me pay attention."

He became quiet. Far too quiet. "Chris…."

"Let me alone, Mitch. God, please just let me alone."

"Finish it."

"Braddock and Carouthers found a couple of long hard limbs. While Fisk cut a few more swatches off my back, they whittled on those branches. Made sure I saw what they were doing. Alternated hitting me, but after awhile, I smelled something burning. Then Carouthers went to work for real. He started….he started burning me. Then they all three took turns. They kept working faster and faster…..they just wouldn’t….stop…..wouldn’t stop….no matter how much I screamed."

"Easy…..it was over….."

"No…it wasn’t over…not by a damn long shot….Fisk’s eyes went real shiny…never seen a man look like that. He told Braddock he had something special in mind for me. He guaranteed I wouldn’t ever forget it. They talked and argued for a spell…Braddock yelled at him ..called him a damn lunatic. Said he'd just kill him before he'd let him do something like that to another man. Carouthers just laughed at Braddock and told him if they wanted me to suffer real good, he ought to just put one in me that would drain me slow and painful. Braddock liked that idea. He pulled out his gun, walked up to me, and shot me….then he laughed and said I’d last a real long time thinking about what I had done to his brothers. After he shot me, Braddock walked over to the fire, heated the point of one of those limbs, and while it was still glowing, he drove it in my back as far as he could."

"But you made it…they weren’t able to kill you."

"What damn difference did that make! Wasn’t anything I did to keep them from it, and they got to me plenty. Don’t you understand? I begged, Mitch…I knew exactly what Fisk meant…I heard him tell Carouthers that I'd make a fine gelding. I saw him put that knife of his in the fire. I begged…..I begged. When Braddock shot me instead, it was a relief. When they put me in that wagon, and left me to die, I would have been damn glad to do it. Anything, just so long as they couldn’t hurt me anymore."

For the next few minutes, he refused to say any more. He was shaking, his breathing fast and shallow. He finally gathered his courage and began the last part of the journey.

"They just put me on that bench and shackled me like a dog. I took one last kick at one of them, like a fool, trying to get free before they turned the key. They just added that collar around my neck, pulled my head backward toward the wall and left me there. The keys were there, the water was there…but I couldn’t do nothing. I just sat there and puked and bled."

"They didn’t really get to you…just wore you down’s all. You were hurt so bad, had lost so much, it had to come. Ain't no man alive who could have taken all that and not begged for relief." John Hill had come in silently. He was the only one alive who knew what those last moments in the wagon had looked like. Most of it was lost to the young man himself. "Now, it’s over. It’s time to forget about this. Shoot, needing to….having to beg will happen to any one of us quick enough. You fought as well as any man could be expected to…you tried damn hard."

"Not then…not then, I didn't try. Just before they left, Braddock told me they were going to do a little job, but he was coming back. Said he had thought it over, and when he came back, if I was still breathing, he’d just let Fisk have me. I decided then to do everything I could to make sure I was dead before Fisk came back. God….all I wanted to do was die."

"Do you remember when John came?"

"I don't remember nothing else. Just pain, just hoping I could die."

There was nothing left to be said. He rose from the chair, and pushed the hair out of his eyes. He turned his back on his brother and his friends. He needed to be alone, left alone so he could let it all go. But it seemed he wasn't to be left alone. Ethan handed him another glass, this time filled with water, and he drank it all. When Mitch put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him, he was suddenly crazily angry. "Just leave me the hell alone. That’s all of it. That's what they did to me. Have you finally heard enough?"

"Enough…and more than enough. But you'll be all right again, quicker than you know. You’re strong, and you’ll be all right."

"I'll be all right when every last one of them is dead." His voice was cold.

"You're not dead."

"Not because of anything they overlooked, Ethan. It was sure their intent."

"You're not dead. So they ain't murderers. You willing to be a murderer now? You avoided hanging once before because you finally proved you didn't do it. If you had been caught and tried, at any time up to when we brought you in, you would have hung. Well, everybody in this place knows you've been tortured, and they've got suspicions about who did it. If any harm comes to those boys, you'll be labeled as the one that did it."

"I don’t give one damn. I want them dead."

"Hold on, boy. Ethan and I came here to help you. We're willing to help you go get them, bring them back for trial and see that they land in jail for a long time. What we aren't willing to do is help you, or watch you, send those men to hell."

"It's where they're headed. If you won't help me send them there, then I'll just have to do it by myself." He walked out past John and disappeared down the hallway. They let him go, knowing he needed a chance to be alone.

Holly found him later, sitting outside on the back steps of the social club. He was sitting on the top step in the middle of a pouring rain, soaked to the skin. He was slumped against one of the columns. The look she saw in his eyes was the look of a man in torment. For a few brief moments, she sat next to him on the step and gathered him to her, his head on her shoulder. She held him close, but said nothing. All she offered was a little sympathy and a little tenderness. He accepted her touch without a word, but he barely acknowledged her existence, much less her compassion. As she held him, his fingers, like talons, gripped a now empty bottle of her very best whiskey.

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